the very soul of this earth
of ours,
Forever yearning through boundless beauty to exalt the spirit with
all her powers.

See where it lies by the lake this morning, our autumn hillside
of hardwood trees,
A masterpiece of the mighty painter who works in the primal mysteries.
A living tapestry, rich and glowing with blended marvels, vermilion
and dun,
Hung out for the pageant of time that passes along an avenue
of the sun!

The crown of the ash is tinged with purple, the hickory leaves
are Etruscan gold,
And the tulip-tree lifts yellow banners against the blue for
a signal bold;
The oaks in crimson cohorts stand, a myriad sumach torches mass
In festal pomp and victorious pride, when the vision of spring
is brought to pass.

Down from the line of the shore's deep shadows another and
softer picture lies,
As if the soul of the lake in slumber should harbor a dream
of paradise,--
Passive and blurred and unsubstantial, lulling the sense and
luring the mind
With the spell of an empty fairy world, where sinew and sap
are left behind.

So men dream of a far-off heaven of power and knowledge and
endless joy,
Asleep to the moment's fine elation, dull to the day's divine
employ,
Musing over a phantom image, born of fantastic hope and fear,
Of the very happiness life engenders and earth provides--our
privilege here.

Dare we dispel a single transport, neglect the worth that is
here and now,
Yet dream of enjoying its shadowy semblance in the by-and-by
somewhere, somehow?
I heard the wind on the hillside whisper, "They ill prepare for
a journey hence
Who waste the senses and starve the spirit in a world all made
for spirit and sense.

"Is the full stream fed from a stifled source, or the ripe fruit
filled from a blighted flower?
Are not the brook and the blossom greatened through many a busy
beatified hour?
Not in the shadow but in the substance, plastic and potent at our
command,
Are all the wisdom and gladness of heart; this is the kingdom of
heaven at hand."

So I will pass through the lovely world, and partake of beauty to
feed my soul.
With earth my domain and growth my portion, how should I sue for
a further dole?
In the lift I feel of immortal rapture, in the flying glimpse I gain
of truth,
Released is the passion that sought perfection, assuaged the ardor
of dreamful youth.

The patience of time shall teach me courage, the strength of the sun
shall lend me poise.
I would give thanks for the autumn glory, for the teaching of earth
and all her joys.
Her fine fruition shall well suffice me; the air shall stir in my
veins like wine;
While the moment waits and the wonder deepens, my life shall merge
with the life divine.

In October

Now come the rosy dogwoods,
The golden tulip-tree,
And the scarlet yellow maple,
To make a day for me.

The ash-trees on the ridges,
The alders in the swamp,
Put on their red and purple
To join the autumn pomp.

The woodbine hangs her crimson
Along the pasture wall,
And all the bannered sumacs
Have heard the frosty call.

Who then so dead to valor
As not to raise a cheer,
When all the woods are marching
In triumph of the year?

By Still Waters

"_He leadeth me beside the still waters; He restoreth
my soul._"

"My tent stands in a garden
Of aster and goldenrod,
Tilled by the rain and the sunshine,
And sown by the hand of God,--
An old New England pasture
Abandoned to peace and time,
And by the magic of beauty
Reclaimed to the sublime.

About it are golden woodlands
Of tulip and hickory;
On the open ridge behind it